


Expectations

by lovinthelads



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovinthelads/pseuds/lovinthelads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Molly had learned not to expect anything from Sherlock, he does the unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> A/N This is my first foray into Sherlock Fanfiction. I know I got stuff wrong. Please be kind.
> 
> X

Molly always slept with her back to the door. She didn’t want to spend her nights, eyes open, wondering what he did as he prowled the floors of 221B Baker Street. The door was half closed; shut to block out the light, but unlatched.

When John had asked Molly to consider moving into the spare room at Sherlock’s flat to keep an eye on him, Molly had questioned what the actual hell he was thinking. Did he hate Molly so much as to subject her to such a thing? Was he actually clueless enough to not understand what living under the same roof as Sherlock would do to her senses?

But then she’d realized that John was truly worried about Sherlock now that he and Mary were expecting a baby and Sherlock was alone. Sure, Mrs. Hudson was in the building, but even as much as the woman did care for Sherlock, she wasn’t the one who could keep an eye on him. Not properly.

And who else was there? Who else did Sherlock actually trust enough not to drive out of the flat within a week with his…eccentricities?

To be fair, the mere idea that John would even consider her made Molly unable to refuse him. In truth, she had no reason to stay in her flat in Kilburn. It was drafty and the landlord was useless on his good days. Her engagement, the sham that it had been, was long since over and what did she have in her days besides her work? She was one more Saturday night home alone from getting a cat.

Sherlock had been absent when her belongings had been delivered. She had crammed everything into the small second bedroom, not even leaving her shoes in the main room or her toothbrush in the bathroom.

On the surface, she was nothing more than his roommate. She went to work every day, nights when she was needed. Did her job as always. Came home and ate dinner if she could find a place to cook it. Kept things tidy as much as she could around his life.

At first, he’d largely ignored her. Gone about his cases as he found them interesting enough for his attentions. Slowly, he’d started to involve her more, as he needed someone to talk at. Someone who used to be John. Some times she was fairly certain he was unaware that she was Molly and not John, but she didn’t mind.

Because he utterly fascinated her. In a way she didn’t even know how to explain. His ability to notice things, observe the world; it was intoxicating. She wondered in her head how to explain to people that there was anything normal about the relationship. He was horrible to her on occasion. He said some of the nastiest things. She spent her time trying not to upset him. Only sending a text to John when he disappeared for more than 12 hours. (which he’d only done once since she’d moved in) 

On the surface, it was nothing short of an abusive relationship. She didn’t tell her mother anything about it other than she had a new roommate. She knew that he had all of the control in the situation, and she could accept that or leave.

And she could. She could walk out the door. She could tell John to find someone else to babysit the asshole.

Oh, who was she kidding, she’d never do that.

She was in love with him and that was the end of it. She’d share his space, make herself as useful as she could. Listen to him ramble and pretend she didn’t care that he practiced the violin at 3 in the morning. The difference now, after years, was that she’d come to accept that it was never going to be any more than this. She used to live in a fantasy place where she expected that something might happen. That if she was patient, he might wake up one day and realized he loved her too. That kind of romantic crap only happened in bad fan fiction.

That she occasionally read.

“Molly!”

Her eyes flew open. The clock said 2:49 am. She waited a moment, wondering if it was wise to respond at this hour. 

And then realized that it was useless to try to out-think him. If he thought it was important enough, then it was, and explaining to him that it wasn’t, was a waste of her breath.

“MOLLY.”

She rolled over pushed the duvet off of her. As her pajamas consisted of fleece leggings and an oversized t-shirt, she wasn’t concerned at all as she shoved her feet into the fuzzy pink slippers at her bedside and pulled the door open wider.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, fingers steepled together, hair in a disarray. He glanced up at her as she stood at the end of the corridor.

“Yes?”

“When is your birthday?”

He was staring down the corridor behind her. 

“Uhm, it’s next Thursday.”

He didn’t say anything more. After a long moment, Molly turned back around and shuffled back to her bedroom.

So much for getting any sleep tonight.

* * * *

While Molly didn’t report to John in any meaningful way, she did meet Mary for coffee every now and then and knew that her confidences were shared to him. Mary worried about Sherlock as much as John did. They were like the parents of a wayward teen some times.

“Is he working on anything interesting right now?” Mary asked, not even bothering to be sly as she leaned back in her chair, hand resting on her enormous belly.

“Lestrade brought him in on a murder last week. He walked into the morgue, announced it had been the mother, and walked out.”

Mary chuckled. “I’m surprised he bothered to made the taxi journey.”

“I think he needed to pick something up at the office, anyway,” Molly smiled as she stirred her coffee a bit restlessly. 

Mary was looking at her, knowing something was on her mind. Oh for the university days where people never noticed anything about you. Between Sherlock, Mary, and John, it was impossible to hide anything, even in her head.

“He asked me when my birthday was.”

Mary laughed. “He what?”

“He woke me up in the middle of the night the other day and asked me when my birthday was.”

“When is your birthday?” Mary asked.

“Next Thursday,” Molly said. “He’s never asked me anything personal like that, not really. He must really be bored, then.”

Mary shook her head. “No. John said he's been working for Mycroft on something that’s actually keeping him fairly entertained.”

“Oh,” Molly said as she shoved away the hopeful little voice that wondered if maybe he actually cared about her.

To be fair, he did care about her. In the way that he could. Never in the way that she daydreamed about. Stupid, pointless expectations in her head.

“Next Thursday. I’ll talk to John. Would you like to come over for dinner?”

Of course Molly didn’t have any plans. Molly never had plans any more. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

* * * *

Contrary to popular myth, they didn’t perform autopsies on everyone who died. Most people were shipped off to be cremated or buried without so much as a Y-incision. No, the only people who were autopsied where those where the cause of death might be of interest to anyone other than the immediate family. Which was why Molly’s job was 90% paperwork and 10% anything interesting 

“Any chance I can get a look at Lestrade’s victim again?” Sherlock asked, startling her the following Thursday morning as she filled out yet another form.

“From last week?” Molly asked as she turned and was uttered speechless as she saw Sherlock standing there with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“Yes,” he said and handed the flowers to her. “Happy Birthday.”

“Th-thank you.” She reached out and accepted the lovely bouquet which smelled positively heavenly.

“I didn’t think you…needed anything and John said flowers are always a good choice,” Sherlock waved his hand. “Anyway, the body?”

“Yes,” Molly said and was unable to hide the smile of delight on her face. She set the bouquet, wrapped in cellophane, on her desk. “I thought we decided it was the mother?”

“It was. She has an alibi. Lestrade wants evidence.”

Molly held her tongue. How dare they want facts and not just Sherlock’s deductions.

She let him into the morgue and located the body for him. She left him alone with his work.

“Who brought you flowers,” asked one of the secretaries who wandered past on her way to lunch.

“A friend,” Molly said. “My birthday.”

“A friend indeed,” the woman gave Molly a wink. “Looks like you may have gotten yourself a new admirer.”

“It’s just my roommate.”

“Ah,” the woman said and departed, looking disappointed. 

Molly rolled her eyes. No one was much interested in Molly for anything but her love life. Why was it that a woman’s only worth was in her pairing off with a man?

Sherlock was busy all afternoon, and she went down to check in on him when she got ready to leave. She was due at the Watson’s at seven, and she wanted to stop by the flat before hand and change. She hadn’t been working in the morgue today, so at least she didn’t smell like corpses so she could likely skip the shower.

“I’m heading out…are you okay to show yourself out?” She stood in the doorway, flowers tucked in her arm.

“Yes,” came the terse reply. He was staring at something under the microscope and Molly gave into the urge to gaze at his profile for a long moment. “What time is it?” he asked, looking up suddenly.

“Just gone half five,” Molly said. 

“Ah,” Sherlock said and dove back to his work.

Molly departed. The flowers were likely the most she was going to get out of him for a long time. She breathed in the scent and smiled. Enjoy it for what it is. Let go of the rest.

As she climbed out of the taxi she’d treated herself to at John and Mary’s, she smiled up at the welcoming home. It was a far cry from the flat she shared with Sherlock. It was the kind of place she’d once envisioned for her own life.

It was a funny thing, to settle with your lot in life. It was often seen to be a way of giving up on what you’d dreamed of, but in truth, there was a great comfort in not having to strive anymore for things you might not achieve.

When you know you can never have what you want. It was all about managing your expectations.

She rang the bell and waited on the step, glancing at the row of houses on either side. 

“Molly! Don’t you look lovely!” Mary beamed as she pulled open the door. They attempted a hug over her belly and settled for a kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” Molly smiled. “Is it next week?”

“Next week!” Mary said with a laugh. “I’m still not sure if I’m excited or terrified.”

“Both, I imagine,” Molly replied as she followed Mary through to the lounge. “Something smells lovely.”

Mary was saying something regarding the meal to her as they emerged into the room, but Molly lost all awareness of everything but the man sitting by the fire place.

Sherlock looked up as she entered and smiled. “Hello, Molly.”

“I didn’t expect…” she said and then shut herself up before more stupid things came out of her mouth.

“It’s your birthday. Where else would I be?”


End file.
